I'm rarely cussed by breakfast cereal. It is even rarer that I take it. "I will not take shit from ANY cereal, least of all the one with a guy who looks like he's the Vice President of the Pop'n Fresh Fan Club!!!!!"

So, yeah, I kicked the shit out of that aisle-stack of breakfast cereal. The beating was epic. Somewhere between the one Thunderlips gives Rocky at the beginning of Rocky III, and the one Israel delivered to the Arab world in June of 1967.

Then, as with all things involving me being violent, there were many people looking, shaking their heads.

"I tripped on this aisle-stack of Cinnamon Toast Crunch while examining the sugar content." I said, to nobody in particular, doing my best to maintain my composure. This was difficult because I was crying (I cry when I get very, very angry. I'm like the anti-Hulk). Also, I'd torn my pants at the knee, ass and crotch.

I realized then that I had one box of cereal still in my hand, where I'd been about to spike it football style.

I put it into my basket. It's important to save face with co-workers and customers.

So, I bought my cereal. I drove home. And I was watching the Predators completely take a dump on the ice against Toronto, and I heard the cereal calling my name again. From my kitchen.

Anyway, to make a long story even longer, I did not beat the shit out my cereal again. I poured a bowl of the cereal, I put milk on top of it, and I selected a clean appropriately sized spoon from the drawer (second from the right, just to the right of the sink). And while watching hockey, I ate my bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.

If Jim Fix had eaten Cinnamon Toast Crunch, he'd have died from a joy-induced heart attack, rather than a jog-induced one. What a difference a letter makes. Just ask Virginia.

So, as things stand right now, I'm giving a whole hell of a lot of thought to having Cinnamon Toast Crunch at my final meal.

Monday, November 15, 2010

Sweet Yellow Cornbread

A repost. A lie that I put up a few years back:

A Lie, this Tuesday Night:

Back in the late nineties, I spent a few years knocking around the boxing circuit.

My nickname was "Sweet Yellow Cornbread."

Sweet, because I was lovable, because I was a student of the sweet science, and also because I could punch hella hard with my fists. I was hell with my fists. I never got the whole "sweet" = "Badass" but, you know, I just went with it. I put more than a few men down for the count with my fists. I was a student of the game, but mostly I was a puncher.

And I was called Cornbread because I was white. Let's face it. There aren't a lot of white fighters, nowadays. It was what identified me to fans, more often than not. So, that's where you get "bread." I gotta lot of "Wonderbreads" and "Whitebreads" and "Cracker" and "Blue-Eyed Devil" as I came up through the ranks. But I was known behind the scenes for cracking a lot of stupid, corny jokes. Hence: Cornbread.

And I was called Yellow because I was cowardly. I spent much of the fight running from my opponent. Screaming. Hands in the air.

It was very much my strategy to see if I could wear my opponent down by having him run himself stupid chasing me.

It's tougher than you think. You try screaming and running around your room for three minutes straight, and see if you aren't worn out.

Then try it with a mouthguard, being chased by a 248 pound man who's trying to punch you to death.

However, my plans worked on more than one occasion, believe it or not.

I had a record of 16-1 up until my last fight. That one loss? I lost on purpose. All I'll say is that I got hit in the gut one good time, and I felt a turtle head poke out. I wasn't sure what had happened back there, but I decided to take a ten count, just to keep from crapping my pants live on pay per view.

Yeah. Good record. I retired after I was beaten into a coma by Vitaly Klitschko, in our bout in 1999.

Just a few random thoughts, as I try to get back into the groove of writing things on my blogamathing.

I had what you might call a difficult customer service experience yesterday, which isn't the point of this particular paragraph, merely the lead-in. In short, a customer made a mistake, insisted that I correct her mistake, made another mistake after I corrected the first one, and reacted condescendingly after I corrected her on her second mistake. Essentially, she noted the corrected mistake with the phrase: "Good Boy."

Good Boy?

Good Boy.

I noted to my friend Rachel that it was with the same tone that you would use for your dog, when he has appropriately avoided shitting on the living room rug.

To wit, her response: "The positive reinforcement wouldn't be necessary if you'd stop shitting where you're not supposed to."

My response? "Where I'm supposed to shit" is a subjective thing.

Still. If I can teach you people anything at all, it is this: The respect with which you treat somebody in a customer service position is the truest indicator of the type of person you are at heart.

And, after some 15 years or so, off and on, in the customer service industry, I can assure you that there is a boatload of shitheads just in my neck of the woods alone. I'm not even breaching the major metropolises of the world.

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It is "White Trash Sits out on the Porch at Midnight Night," by the way. I know this because both sets of white trash neighbors are sitting out on the porch at midnight. The one set is fairly lit, judging by the attempts at humor. The other set is simply finding a pleasant place to smoke, I would suppose.

Anyway, I would humbly like to submit my apologies for not buying you a card, or perhaps a Citronella Candle. What about one of those shakeable pocket hand warmers? I used to love those things. It's getting a little chilly in this neck of the woods.

I say "a little chilly," and I'm sure you poor souls reading this blogamathing up in the wilds of Calgary, Alberta, Canada (and thank you, faithful reader, for showing up at least 5 times a week), are laughing at my referring to my 39 degrees as "a little chilly." But still, 39 degrees, to me, doesn't really denote the best weather to sit out on the porch and comment on the ways and passings of the world.

----

I am a horrible blogger, inasmuch as a week ago, I got together over at the home of Straight White Guy, along with several other Online Journalists in a yearly debacle of inanity known as Hysterics at Eric's. A fine time was had by all, and I'd like to to publicly thank Eric for hosting the event....

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I would like to revise my previous review of the movie Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, which I'd remembered not liking very much. It seemed like too much was packed into the movie, or rather, too much had to be left off to get the movie to fit into a 2 or a 2 and a half hour span.

What I missed was the interplay between Harry and Snape. In truth, Snape gets roughly 4 minutes of screen time, and the final declaration of "I am the Half-Blood Prince" seems to come pretty much out of nowhere.

In the space of a couple weeks, I've re-viewed the previous five movies, and watched the sixth over the past couple of mornings. In that particular context, I can buy the lack of screen time given to Snape, despite his being my favorite character. By this point, we know who he is, and how nasty he can be, especially as it concerns Harry.

Half-Blood Prince is one I haven't re-read since it first came into print. I may be confusing books. Is it Half-Blood Prince where we learn that Snape was in love with Harry's mother, when they were in school?

Sunday, November 14, 2010

Recommendation: Mike Toole

Saturday, November 13, 2010

Eight

Not a lot's been going on these parts the past few months. I've had other writing projects, and a shitload of work. But, I'm still here, from time to time, posting inanities and being all that goes into being Tommy. For seven years, I've been keeping this booger going. It's been a trip, and I've gotten to meet a few of you nice folks around these United States.

Thanks for reading. I'm still around. Finding spare time, as I say, is a rare beast. Especially since we wander toward the Giant Grateful Feast in November...

I just think it's wonder I've been doing this blogamathing this long, and had absolutely nothing to say....

Tuesday, November 09, 2010

Angels....

Sunday, November 07, 2010

Conversations....and how people get nicknames....

In lieu of actual content, as I'm feeling tired, and actually under the weather a bit, I'll simply be posting a transcription of a conversation, over Blackberry Messenger, with my sister.

A word of context: Duke is their dog. And: We have had an argument about the specifics of how time travel works, specifically as it pertains to the movie series Back to the Future.

April: Duke just pooted.Tommy: Ok, thanks.April: You are Welcome!April: Do you have to work today?Tommy: No.April: So, the space time continuum theories don't work. Marty is able to warn Doc about getting shot.

Tommy: No. He's created a different time line. It's two different docs.Tommy: The Doc that gets warned lives in a different time line than the one Marty left.

April: Your reasoning is flawed.

Tommy: Your reasoning is stupid.

April: You're Stupid.

Tommy: No, you're stupid. I'm flawed. Deeply flawed.

April: I'm not stupid, you're stupid. Have you seen Lonestar State of Mind?

Tommy: No.

April: Or, it could just be Lonestar State with Joshua Jackson.

Tommy. Still, no.

April: It's super funny. You should.

Tommy: OK.Tommy: Does it have time travel that you will argue with me about?

April: No, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't watch it.April: You off any this week?

Tommy: No.

April: When does the time change again?

Tommy: The time changed last night.

April: No, whne does it spring forward again? The date, I mean? Don't say in the spring.

Tommy: I think it's the end of March.

April: What does the little d or a mean on the checkmark next to our comments? Delivered and answered?

Tommy: D means Delivered. An r means received/read

April: Mine has an a, not an r.

Tommy: I've never seen that.

April: So, yours looks like an r?

Tommy: It looks that way because it is an R.

April: Do you know how much that statement both angered and amused me? You made me chuckle and want to srive [sic] to Athens to prove you wrong at the same time.

Tommy: I would like you to Drive up here so I can teach you the alphabet.

April: I know the alphabet. I two languages.

Tommy: You know it in one language. In this one, you know the rlphrbet in this one, apparently.

Sometime in the last couple of years (time's funny, out here), they did a compilation record with various artists covering songs from Nightmare before Christmas. Not a bad little listen....I dig on this one, and Marilyn Manson's "This is Halloween."